


“You want me to do WHAT?!”

by RogerStenning



Series: The Roic Files [3]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerStenning/pseuds/RogerStenning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the tasks that wind up defining you life, that you never see coming...</p>
            </blockquote>





	“You want me to do WHAT?!”

**“You want me to do WHAT?!”**  
  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning  
  
Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!  
  
Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.  
  
***  
  
This FanFic was inspired by a line in the Novella  
“Winterfair Gifts” by Lois McMaster Bujold.  
  
***

“Life goes on.” That's what they all said, and by damn, they were right.

In the months following the Main Square Sniper, life had been something of a whirlwind, what with his having to give evidence at Counts' Criminal Court (The sniper, one Igor Stefanovitch, Guilty by reason of Temporary Insanity, sentenced to Life Without Possibility of Parole), then doing it all again at Imperial Criminal Court, when it went for appeal (where the verdict and sentence were unanimously upheld), and then his award ceremony at Guard Central, but now, some six months on, in mid summer, things were pretty-much back to normal.  
  
The support group that had been set up to assist those caught up in the shootings was doing well, and he'd been there a couple of times by invitation, to see how the victims were doing (all doing well, thanks to Vicereine Countess Vorkosigan's innovations in bringing galactic mental health professionals in to train and supervise the local head-doctor talent, so to speak; the visits even seemed to help him a bit, too, as he always left them feeling somehow more relaxed than when he went in, although that could have been the nerves at work, he supposed).  
  
His own birthday bash last month, at the 'Mallet & Chisel' of course, unlike the last bash the family had there, wasn't delayed, and had gone off without incident, and he'd even beaten his Da in five straight games of Darts - although he wasn't altogether sure his Da hadn't let him win the last two, although on the other hand, his brother, the fire fighter (with Three Meritorious Conduct awards and one Extreme Valour Award for lifesaving, yeah, now THERE was a real hero - “Fires don't shoot back, kid" Roic winced inwardly. He'd been called 'Kid' by his elder brother since he could remember, "although the backdraft can be a tad alarming at times,” his brother concluded wryly. _Running INTO a blazing building? God's Teeth, no thank you very bloody much!_ ), had beaten him hands down over a set of pool, three games to zilch. Whatever the scores, it all made for an altogether enjoyable and relaxing night on his RDO (Regular Day Off).  
  
So, there he was, mid-summer, mid way through his shift, at the Shashlyk kiosk with his regular partner, André, chuckling over past amusing incidents, as they munched on some lunch...  
  
“So what'd he do then? Weave a nice straight line into traffic?” asked André, about a drunk that Roic was telling him about from the last year.  
  
Roic managed not to cough and swallow at the same time. Andrés' timing was always better than his. “No, silly bugger walked right into the lamp post, _BOOF!_ Legs and arms everywhere, and he goes bass ackwards and, God knows how, avoided cracking his nut on the way down, to land up looking at Sergeant Meklov's face, upside down, looming over him probably looking for all the world like the Baba-Yaga! So what does he do?”  
  
“Not a clue, but if this is the Meklov that retired last year, with the kraaken-like scar on his puss, I think I'd've legged it, Gawd, that were enough to scare the dead, let alone the living on a dark night!”  
  
“Heh. That's Meklov.” Roic smiled, remembering the crusty old Sergeant's horrifying scar. Now THERE was a story for the bar, next time! “Anyhow, there this git is, looking up at Meklov, and going a very pale shade of green, when Meklov blinks, leans back, and says, 'Well, Magistrate Fessov, we meet again.' Coulda knocked me over with a bloody feather. He was so crocked I hadn't recognised his as being a District Court Magistrate!”  
  
“Hang on – isn't Fessov the one who was leading that whole anti public intoxication thing early on last year?”  
  
“Yep.” Roic grinned mercilessly. “Seems he'd been to a wedding that day, and somehow knocked back three bottles of the Districts' Best plonk, a bottle of maple mead, and several of those hideously proof hooch vodka things. Needless to say, he was well potted by the time we found him wandering all over the road at two in the morning!”  
  
“Ha. Amazing the man could even move after that lot! I'd wondered why that campaign suddenly fizzled out!”  
  
“Now, tovarisch, you know why!”  
  
“Here,” André suddenly waved a finger in the air, “Sudden thought. If we call the go-between a Baba, why the heck do we call that nightmarish scare-the-kids figure the Baba-Yaga?”  
  
“I asked my old man that a fair few years back. He didn't know exactly either. If I recall correctly from what he said, Baba is the old word for Grandmother, with Yaga being something from maybe old folklore or something; anyhow, the upshot is a rough translation to 'old woman with crooked teeth', or something similar. Go figure.”  
  
“Hmph. Learn something new every day. We Greekies haven't anything like that, of course. Much too civilised, and all that rot.” He grinned as Roic nearly choked on his sweet tea. “You all right there?”  
  
Roic was bent double, trying not to get the tea on his jacket. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, got his breathing back under control, and shot his partner a rather disgusted look as he stood back up. “Civilised? You? Pull the other one, tovarisch!”  
  
They were both chuckling as a shorter man walked up in a uniform similar to the Dress Uniform of a Municipal Guardsman, but of far better cut and material. He regarded André for a brief moment, and then turned to Roic. “Good evening. Are you Senior Street Guard Roic?”  
  
Roic regarded the man for a moment. Shorter than both Roic and André, The man was dressed in the Count Vorkosigan's Household Uniform, and wore what appeared to be a serviceable and well-cared-for heavy Stunner in a holster on his belt, openly. That made him one of the Counts' Armsmen. The discreet markings on his uniform showed him to have been a Senior Sergeant in the Imperial Service, too; his bearing bore that out, as did his uniform, spotless and impeccably pressed to almost knife edges, the half boots polished to a mirror-like shine. He looked about fifty years old, but that didn't mean a thing – the hair was buzz-saw cut to almost baldness, making hair colour impossible to determine. There were no name tags, of course. What the hell. “Yes, I'm Roic. Who are you, and how can I help?”  
  
“Your Shift Sergeant, Sergeant Petzisch, told me I'd likely find you over here at your meal relief. Can I talk privately with you for a few moments?”  
  
“You still haven't told me who you are, sir.”  
  
“M'name's Pym. I'm the commander of Admiral Count Vorkosigan's Armsmen. You've come highly recommended by your Sector Commander, Captain Abrachek, and your office Commander, Lieutenant Dutzetov. I'm here with their permission.” Roics' eyebrows lifted. That was strange. An Armsman seeking permission to talk to a Street Guard? _What t'devil?_ Pym continued. “I've a proposition for you, if you're interested. We'd like you to join the Count's Armsman Contingent.”  
  
Roics' eyebrows reached the stratosphere. “You want me to do _WHAT?!_ ” the last word was fully three octaves higher than he'd ever squeaked before. Even as a kid.  
  
Pym smiled widely. _Gotcha_.

_FIN_


End file.
